A Guard's Tale
by ChrysanthemumBornofWinter
Summary: He'd taken the shot, he'd been interrupted and missed, and Queen Elsa had lived, but still he'd taken the shot. A story of the two men who sought the life of the Snow Queen and the fate of the man who employed them.


After the devastating and wholly unexpected snow of Arendelle and the rough torrents of the sea tossed ship there seemed no better place in all the world than the little groundsman's hut some way from the Duke's manor. Lad, as he was called for his father had firmly asserted his inability to recall what the boy's mother had named him upon his birth, which had subsequently caused her death, reveled in the deep green smell of the earth. His reason for being there however was little to take pleasure in, and although it was the fault of neither he nor his father it was in truth their punishment. It had been on the Duke's own orders that they sought out the life of Arendelle's monarch, the snow queen Elsa, and yet it was for this also that they were now delegated to tending the grounds, rather than the halls a pace behind the great man himself.

Lad glanced up from the strip of leather he'd been working by blade and into the dense green of the wooded area separating himself from the manor, though in his mind's eye he saw it's dark spires clearly enough. There was a disquiet in that house, even more so than when the lady of it took ill some months ago. Turmoil and discontentment now reigned where a rigid civic order once ruled. The hammer was poised against the Duke, and now it would fall, but such politics were not for Lad. He was simple but not unintelligent, he knew that the Good King had sent the Duke on a diplomatic errand hoping to further relations between the two kingdoms. Lad knew also that it was the Duke's own greed, superstition, and fear that had caused the once strong ties to be severed entirely.

Lad bit harshly at the nail of his thumb tearing it, causing a bead of blood to rise to the surface. Spitting it to the dirt he thought also, in a brooding manner, of the damage of his own ignorant and blind obedience. He'd always followed orders, that was his role, and yet he had doubt. Gunter, his father came stalking through the undergrowth then, casting a weary glance to his son's work, he nodded. Neither man was a man of words and Lad fewer still. Never the less he took this curt form of acknowledgment to mean approval of his work, and in as much silence tipped his chin up in response.

Gunter settled down heavily behind him, there was a grim sense of condemnation in the way he fell to the floorboards, and Lad knew. It had been hanging eminent in the air since their return, the Duke would be losing his title, his land, and all the wealth and power that had accompanied both. Rumors had been flying about the kitchens for nearly a week now, and this last declaration seemed to have sealed it. Lad ceased his work resting his head on his knee. He'd known no other home, nor any other life, not in all his days and now it would all be taken from him.

His father's hand fell heavy on his shoulder and the young man turned. "Don't think on it." Gunter said, his voice a low rumble scarcely louder than a whisper. Their eyes met in a rare moment of familiarity, and companionship. Never was Gunter the doting father, yet in the same manner, never did he treat his son any less than any other man he had acquaintance with. And such was his nature and that of their relationship, Gunter saw them as equals. Yet in that moment he sought not to confer a common fate with an ally, but rather to comfort his son.

After a time Gunter got to his feet, retrieved a length of rope, and his crossbow. Slapping the rope against his son's shoulder he made motion for him to rise and follow. "Grounds check." he said pointedly, and Lad followed suit. The pair walked side by side for a time, neither giving breath to word yet each drawing comfort and strength from, their nearness, and the familiarity of their duties. It was at the divergence in the path that they inevitably parted ways, each setting about his own work.

The evergreens, black in bark and heavy with verdant green boughs shielded Lad from the cruelty of summer's noon time sun. It was as he walked this narrow path, surrounded by silence, and enveloped by the profound earthen smells of home that he began to recall the past. He smiled vaguely. It had seemed so easy in his days of youth. He'd been a rapscallion of ill repute, running about the grounds with his ragged troupe of varlets, put to one menial task or another as means of keeping them out of trouble.

It was this very path that Lad had been sent down many a late afternoon and early evening jobbed with emptying the snares it was lined with. It was never a pleasant thing to do, but after the first few weeks he'd grown accustomed to the death, and the sharpness of the wires. The rabbits and other poor beasts however, were rarely all dead and so Lad's small calloused hands learned quickly the best ways in which to wring a screaming hare, or rend a squalling pheasant. Such had been his chore until age, and his willingness to obey had earned him higher, more respected positions in the order of servitude, until finally he found himself a guard.

It was now out of habit that he found his eyes raking through the ferns, rather than peering in the distance for any poachers on this prized piece of land. He felt almost at ease as he did this, after all this was his home. He had gone some way further when a shrill cry cut through the air. Lad was running at once. His ears burned with the pain in that all too human voice as he strained to hear more, every sense, every nerve blaring on edge as he struggled through the snagging maze of undergrowth.

He burst into as small clearing and froze, weapon raised. It took him only a moment to take in the horrible, desperate scene before him. A tangle of thick black hair all but hid the burning amber eyes and the sharpness of the white teeth bared in a fierce snarl, as frantic claw like hands worked in vain. It would be this wildness that struck him most about the girl, the unrelenting animalistic rage hidden beneath her fair, yet dirt stained face. She was crouched low to the ground, her eyes burning into his as her fingers, slick with blood, came away from the snare again as she'd cut herself in her attempt to loosen it.

It was only when the boy gave the low dumb cry of an animal realizing that it's own mortality would soon be ended, that he took any notice of the child. Lad blinked, his brow furrowed at the young woman's hushed utterances of one curse or another as she tried desperately to free her young companion whose foot was quickly growing black. They were thin, the pair of them, dirty, and pale. The young woman with her rage and the boy with his insurmountable fear seemed two great nature deities in that moment rather than people made of flesh and blood.

Yet in these same brief moments that he had surveyed this scene the youthful guard had planted his feet firm, squared his shoulders, and took sight over his crossbow. It was the weapon, the bolt gleaming in a stray beam of light, he noticed, that the boy was staring at so keenly. They were poachers, the both of them, and such a crime was punishable by death. Even if he detained them the penalty would remain the same, but in loosing the arrows he carried he would be a mercy, saving the girl being accosted while in holding and the humiliation of the pair dancing a jig from a bough in the midst of town.

His finger resting ruefully on the trigger Lad struggled against thoughts of Arendelle's young queen. A knot winding itself in his stomach as he recalled his own mortal fear of her, which had been tempered by his stark need to obey, even if such obedience meant taking an innocent and equally fearful life. Swallowing passed a hard lump in his throat Lad was abruptly aware of the great weight at the end of his arm. Suddenly overcome with repulsion at the sight of his weapon, and the man he had become, Lad fought the urge to hurl the vile instrument away.

The young man coming quickly back to himself turned his attention once again to the trepidatious vagabonds where they crouched. The child was nearly free and was now grunting in an unintelligible, low, tear strained voice to his guardian. Lad readied himself again recalling his duty. He'd fired, in Arendelle, and yet every waking moment since he gave silent thanks to God above that he'd been interrupted, and missed.

The child gave a short yelp when the wire was removed from around his ankle, before being protectively swung up into the girl's arms. They stood then staring at one another, Lad and the girl neither daring to make the first move. It was Lad, filled with a guilt, and remorse untold who lowered his guard, allowing his outstretched arm to fall to his side, taking the danger of that killing weapon along with it. The girl made a tentative step forward as if she could scarcely believe what she had just witnessed. Then in a heady rush the girl tore away from where she stood, head down, child clutched firmly to her breast. Hurrying past Lad and falling to the ground some strides just behind him crashing through a gorse bush she pressed her way out through a narrow hole in the wall, thrusting the child out before her.

Lad watched them as they fled, a confusion of relief and anxiety running through him. It was at that moment, as he turned to where they had watched him so piercingly that he saw the thin brown forms of two rabbits. Without much thought he strode forward and picking them up hurled them over the wall, with no assurance that they would ever be found by anything other than a roving fox.

"What's this?" the harsh voice of Gunter sounded behind him.

Lad turned, fearful that he had been caught in an act of treason. When his father seemed all too prepared to await an answer he stumbling replied, "Fox, in the snare, got away." he motioned to the bloody length of wire. Gunter's brows furrowed slightly before he gave a sharp nod. He gestured for Lad to continue searching the grounds, and once again grateful for the almighty and his own blessed luck, Lad complied.

It was only after his son had gone on for some way that Gunter kicked aside the snare, and combed through the brush. He cared for Lad, and it was precisely because he cared that he needed to know the truth the boy refused to freely give. There he found it, a torn bit of cloth. Rubbing away some dirt with his thumb, he could make out the faint hues of the once pink fabric and the delicate floral pattern upon it. He sighed, the boy's heart was his greatest weakness, and yet Gunter could not argue that he would not have done the same, save for the fact that he'd been ordered to do so. That was the real difference between father and son, Gunter knew well how to follow orders, and if he'd come across the thieving pair they would have died, either by his hand, or the hangman's.

Pocketing the cloth grimly he followed after Lad.


End file.
